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Of this book there have been six hundred and 
twenty-five copies printed : twenty-five on 
Imperial Japan vellum ; one hundred on Shan- 
don paper for illumination ; and five hundred 
on Shandon paper, not illumined. 
This being number , 



Library of Congrovs 

Two Copies Received 
IAN 22 1901 

Copyright Miry 



«o. 



SECO«0 COPY 



'.^'S* 






Copyright, 1900, by 
Langworthy & Stevens 




JAIL! TRUE BELIEVER. 

Herein is set forth certain 
verse inspired by the Tent- 
Maker whose tongue was of 
gold, and him who found 
and re-cast that forgotten 
' tongue for us. 

The task of selection has 
not been easy; everyone with 
a voice has sung his like or dislike of our 
Omar ; every edition has something of the 
sort. 

I do not possess a collection of even the 
American editions — I gave it up long ago. 
Mr. Mosher of Portland is suspected of trying 
to keep pace with them. 'Tis told he wrote 
the Philosopher Ellis for a Rubaiyat. Mr. 
Ellis replied that the Philosopher Press, had 
not printed a Rubaiyat; and as this was unique 
he had thoughts of advertising the fatft. 

Mr. Mosher lists in his latest bibliography 
XXXV items in American reprints alone and 
one of these items covers twenty-six editions. 
So if you have written anything that might be 



here, you may believe it is because I have not 
seen it. 

Some of you will not like the satirical verse 
and parodies which have been included. For 
your sakes they have been set by themselves, 
that you may avoid them. But does not the 
kinship of Omar to modern thought lie in that 
he was possessed of moods — his worship of 
wisdom, his pursuit of that trio of pleasures 
which some would name sin, his repentances 
— and a sense of humor. 

"But, through the shift of mood and mood, 
"Mine ancient humour saves him whole — 

"The cynic devil in his blood 

"That bids him mock his hurrying soul." 

Did some one say he didn't hurry ? — 
Did he not hurry his soul from mood to 

mood and laugh at his own futility the while? 

In this spirit, would he not enjoy a quip at 

himself? 



"Indeed the idols I have loved so long 
"Have done my credit in this World much . 
wrong : 
"Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup, 
"And sold my Reputation for a song. 

"Indeed, indeed. Repentance oft before 
"I swore — but was I sober when I swore ? 
"And then and then came Spring, and 
Rose-in-hand 
"My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore." 

Give ye thanks to all whose flowers of 
speech are gathered here ; thanks give I to all 
who aided and abetted the gathering, and es- 
pecially to Nathan Haskell Dole, who blazed 
a path. 

E. M. M. 




THE GRAVE OF OMAR KHAYYAM 

NAMED Nizami, child of 

Samarcand, 
The holy place whose towers 

aspire to heaven, 
Whose domes are blue as 

heaven's inverted cup, 
The consecrated shrine, the 

head of Islam, 
Whose heart is at Meccah, 
the happy spot 
Where bloom the gardens of the Heart's 

delight; 
Where, in the house upon the Shepherd's 

Hill, 
Wise men pursue the pathway of the stars — 
I, even Nizami, write this record down 
In God's name, merciful, compassionate, 
A proof of his compassion. 

When my youth 
Burned in my body like a new-fed flame. 
When wisdom seemed an easy flower to 
pluck. 



And knowledge fruit that ripens in a day — 
Ah me ! that merry When so long ago — 
I was a pupil of that man of men, 
Omar, the Tent-Maker of Naishapur, 
That is Khorassan's crown, Omar the wise. 
Whose wisdom read the golden laws of life. 
And made them ours forever in his songs, 
Omar the star-gazer. 

One day by chance, 
I taxing all my student's store of wit 
With thought of is and is not, good and bad, 
And fondly dreaming that my fingers soon 
Would close upon the key of heaven and 

earth, 
I met my master in a garden walk. 
Musing as was his wont, I knew not what. 
Perhaps some better mode of marshalling 
Those daily soldiers of the conquering years, 
Perchance some subtler science which the stars 
Ciphered in fire upon the vaulted sky 
For him alone, perchance on some rare rhymes 
Pregnant with mighty thoughts, or on some 

girl, 
Star-eyed and cypress-slender, tulip-cheeked 



And jasmine-bosomed, for he loved such well, 
And deemed it wisdom. 

Omar saw me not, 
And would have passed me curtained in his 

thoughts ; 
But I, perked up with youthful consequence 
At mine own wisdom, plucked him by the 

sleeve. 
And with grave salutation, as befits 
The pupil to his master, stayed his course 
And craved his patience. 

Omar gazed at me 
With the grave sweetness which his servants 

loved, 
And gave me leave to speak, which I, on fire 
To tell the thing I thought, made haste to do. 
And poured my babble in the master's ear 
Of solving human doubt. 

When I had done. 
And, panting, looked into my master's eyes 
To read therein approval of my plan. 
He turned his head, and for a little while 
Waited in silence, while my petulant mind 
Galloped again the course of argument 



And found no flaw, all perfedt. 

Still he stood 
Silent, and I, the riddle-reader, vexed 
At long-delayed approval, touched again 
His sleeve, and with impatient reverence 
Said, 

"Master, speak, that I may garner up 
In scented manuscript the thoughts of price 
That fall from Omar's lips." 

He smiled again 
In sweet forgiveness of my turbulent mood. 
And with a kindly laughter in his eyes 
He said, 

"I have been thinking, when I die. 
That I should like to slumber where the wind 
May heap my tomb with roses." 

So he spoke. 
And then with thoughtful face and quiet tread 
He passed and left me staring, most amazed 
At such a pearl from such a sea of thought. 
And marveling that great philosophers 
Can sometimes pay so little heed to truth 
When truth is thrust before them. God be 
praised ! 

lO 



I am wiser now, and grasp no golden key. 
Years came and went, and Omar passed away, 
First from those garden walks of Samarcand 
Where he and I so often watched the moon 
Silver the bosoms of the cypresses. 
And so from out the circle of my life, 
And in due season out of life itself ; 
And his great name became a memory 
That clung about me like the scent of flowers 
Beloved in boyhood, and the wheeling years 
Ground pleasure into dust beneath my feet ; 
And so the world wagged till there came a day 
When I that had been young and was not 

young, 
I found myself at Naishapur, and there 
Bethought me of my master dead and gone. 
And the musk-scented preface of my youth. 
Then to myself I said, "Nizami, rise 
And seek the tomb of Omar." So I sought. 
And after seeking found, and, lo ! it lay 
Beyond a garden full of roses, full 
As the third heaven is full of happy eyes ; 
And every wind that whispered through the 

trees 

II 



Scattered a heap of roses on his grave ; 
Yea, roses leaned, and from their odorous 

hearts 
Rained petals on his marble monument, 
Crimson as lips of angels. Straight my mind. 
Sweeping the desert of departed yeers. 
Leaped to that garden speech in Samarcand, 
The cypress grove, my fretful questioning. 
And the mild beauty of my master's face. 
Then I knelt down and glorified Allah, 
Who is compassionate and merciful. 
That of his boundless mercy he forgave 
That singing sinner ; for I surely knew 
That all the leaves of every rose that dripped 
Its tribute on the tomb where Omar sleeps. 
Were tears and kisses that should smooth away 
His record of offence ; for Omar sinned. 
Since Omar was a man. 

He wished to sleep 
Beneath a veil of roses ; Heaven heard. 
Forgave, and granted, and the perfumed pall 
Hides the shrine's whiteness. Glory to Allah ! 

Justin Huntly McCarthy 

(From **The Quatrains of Omar Khayyam," 
Copyright 1898, by Brentano's.) 



Upon the planting of a rose from 
Naishapur over FitzGerald's grave. 



Here on FitzGerald's grave from Omar's 
tomb 

To lay fit tribute pilgrim singers flock ; 
Long with a double fragrance let it bloom. 

The Rose of I ram on an English stock. 

Grant Allen 



14 



"INSCRIPTION" 



EIGN here, triumphant rose 

from Omar's grave. 
Borne by a fakir o'er the 
Persian wave ; 
Reign with fresh pride, 
since here a heart is 
sleeping 
That double glory to your 
Master gave. 



Hither let many a pilgrim step be bent 
To greet the rose re-risen in banishment ; 
Here richer crimsons may its cup be 
keeping 
Than brimmed it ere from Naishapur it went. 

Edmund Gosse 




15 



OMAR'S ROSE 




ROM Naishapur to England, 

from the tomb 
Where Omar slumbers to the 
Narrow Room 
That shrines FitzGerald's 
ashes, Persia sends 
Perfume and Pigment of her 
Rose to bloom. 

Wedded with Rose of Eng- 
land, for a sign 
That English lips, transmitting the divine 

High piping music of the song that ends. 
As it began, with Wine and Wine and Wine, 

Across the ages caught the words that fell 
From Omar's mouth and made them audible 
To the unnumbered sitters at Life's Feast 
Who wear their hearts out over Heaven and 
Hell. 

Vex not today with wonder which were best. 
The Student, Scholar, Singer of the West, 

Or Singer, Scholar, Student of the East — 
The Soul of Omar burned in England's breast. 



And howsoever Autumn's breezes blow 
About the Rose, and Winter's fingers throw, 

In mockery of Oriental noons. 
Upon this grass the monumental snow ; 

Still in our dreams the Eastern Rose survives 
Lending diviner fragrance to our lives : 
The world is old, cold, warned by waning 
moons. 
But Omar's creed in English verse revives. 

The fountain in the tulip-tinted dale. 
The manuscript of some melodious tale 

Babbling of love and lovers passion-pale. 
Of Rose, of Cypress, and of Nightingale ; 

The cup that Saki proffers to our lips. 
The cup from which the Rose-Red Mercy 
drips, 
Bidding forget how, like a sinking sail. 
Day after day into the darkness slips ; 

The wisdom that the Watcher of the Skies 
Won from the wandering stars that soothed 
his eyes, 
The legend writ below, around, above — 
"One thing at least is certain, this Life flies ;" 

17 



These were the gifts of Omar — these he gave 
Full-handed : his Disciple sought to save 

Some portion for his people, and their love 
Plants Omar's Rose upon an English Grave. 

J. H. McC. 



i8 



HEAR US, YE WINDS 

My tomb shall be on a spot where the North 
Wind may strow roses upon it. 

Omar Khayyam to Kwajah Nizami. 




'EAR us, ye winds ! 

From where the North 
Wind strows 
Blossoms that crown the 

"King of Wisdom's" tomb, 
The trees here planted bring 

remembered bloom 
Dreaming in seed of Love's 
ancestral Rose 
To meadows where a braver North Wind 

blows 
O'er greener grass, o'er hedge-rose, may, 

and broom. 
And all that make East England's field- 
perfume 
Dearer than any fragrance Persia knows : — 



19 



Hear us, ye winds, North, East, and West, 

and South ! 
This granite covers him whose golden mouth 
Made wise ev'n the word of Wisdom's King ; 
Blow softly o'er the grave of Omar's herald 
Till roses rich of Omar's dust shall spring 
From richer dust of Suffolk's rare FitzGerald. 

1'heodore Watts 



1Q 



Verse read at meetings of the Omar 
Khayyam Club of London. 



OMAR KHAYYAM (1898) 

MAR, when it was time 

for thee to die, 
Thou saidst to those 

around thee, Let me lie 
Where the North Wind 
may scatter on my grave 
Roses ; and now thou hast 

what thou didst crave, 
Since from the northern 
shore the northern blast 
Roses each year upon thy tomb hath cast. 
Thy more familiar comrades, who have sped 
Many a health to thee, send roses red. 
We are but guests unto the tavern brought. 
And have a flower the paler for that thought ; 
Yet is our love so rich that roses white 
Shall fall empurpled on thy tomb tonight. 

Stephen Phillips 




12 



(i897) 



ELL, Omar Khayyam 

wrote of Wine, 
And all of us, sometimes, 

must dine ; 
And Omar Khayyam 

wrote of Roses, 
And all of us, no doubt, 

have noses ; 
And Omar Khayyam 
wrote of Love, 
Which some of us are not above. 
Also he charms to this extent. 
We don't know, always, what he meant. 
Lastly, the man's so plainly dead 
We can heap honors on his head. 

Austin Dobson 




53 



OMAR'S FRIENDS AT BURFORD 
BRIDGE (1895) 

OT mid the London dust 

and glare, 
The wheels that rattle, the 
lamps that flare. 
But down in the deep 
green Surrey dingle, 
You drink to Omar in 
fragrant air. 

Here, he said, was a tale to tell 

Of Burford Bridge in the lonely dell, 

A tale of the friends of the leal White Roses, 
But he told it not, who had told it well. 

Drink to him then, ere the night be sped ! 
Drink to his name while the wine is red ! 

To Tearlach drink, and Tusitala, 
To the king that is gone, and the friend that's 
dead ! 




24 



Out of the silence if men may hear, 
Into the silence faint and clear, 

The voice may pierce of loving kindness, 
And leal remembrance may yet be dear. 

Andrew Lang 



%S 



(i895) 




NE cup in joy before the 

banquet ends, 
One thought for vanished, 

for transfigured friends, 
Stars on the living cope of 

heaven embossed. 
The heaven of Love that 

o'er us beams and 

bends ! 

Roses and bay for many a phantom head ! 
Death is but what we make it — for the dead ; 
Held hard in memory, those we loved and 
lost 
, Shall live while blood is warm and wine is red. 

Edmund Gosse 



16 



ROSROSARUM (1897) 



O know the love-song that 

might best avail, 
I made petition to the 
nightingale. 
Whose melody made an- 
swer : "Lo, the rose 
Hath all my secret and may 
tell the tale. 



"When to the rose I pour 
my song for wine, 
Thereof let wisdom what it can divine ; 
I know this only, that I sing myself 
Unto myself, and stay not to define." 

Then, eager to fulfil such fair behest, 
I wandered forth upon the rose's quest. 

But all in vain, since I might not discern 
The rose-queen of all roses from the rest. 




27 



Should she give aid, who glows with empire's 

red. 
Or she, whose white doth heaven's own 

court bespread ? 
Or she, that scatters bloom at Naishapur, 
Tell me, perchance, what Omar left unsaid ? 

At last the lapwing piped to me : "My son, 
Thy fill of doing gets thee nothing done ; 
We flit in this brief show from flow'r to 
flow'r 
Of many roses, but the rose is one." 

Sir Frederick Pollock 



28 



OMAR KHAYYAM 




REAT Omar, here tonight 

we drain a bowl 
Unto thy long-since trans- 
migrated Soul, 
Ours all unworthy in 
thy place to sit. 
Ours still to read in life's 
enchanted scroll. 



For us like thee a little 
hour to stay, 
For us like thee a little hour to play, 

A little hour for wine and love and song, 
And we too turn the glass and take our way. 

So many years your tomb the roses strew, 
Yet not one penny wiser we than you. 
The doubts that wearied you are with us 

still. 
And, Heaven be thanked ! your wine is with 

us too. 

For have the years a better message brought 
To match the simple wisdom that you taught ; 
29 



Love, wine and verse, and just a little 
bread — 
For these to live and count the rest as nought? 

Therefore, Great Omar, here our homage deep 
We drain to thee, though all too fast asleep 

In Death's intoxication art thou sunk 
To know the solemn revels that we keep. 

Oh, had we, best-beloved poet, but the power 
From our own lives to pluck one golden hour. 

And give it unto thee in thy great need. 
How would we welcome thee to this bright 
bower ! 

O life that is so warm, 'twas Omar's too ; 
O wine that is so red, he drank of you : 

Yet life and wine must all be put away. 
And we go sleep with Omar — yea, tis true. 

And when in some great city yet to be 
The sacred wine is spilt for you and me, 
To those great fames that we have yet to 
build. 
We'll know as little of it all as he. 

Richard LeGalliene 
30 



Other verse 



TO E. FITZGERALD 

sf: * * 

\ UT none can say 

That Lenten fare makes 

Lenten thought, 

Who reads your Golden 

Eastern lay. 

Than which I know no 

version done 

In English more divinely 

well ; 

A planet equal to the sun 

Which cast it, that large infidel 

Your Omar ; and your Omar drew 

Full-handed plaudits from our best 

In modern letters, and from two. 

Old friends outvaluing all the rest. 

Two voices heard on earth no more. 
***** 

Alfred Tennyson 




32 



TO OMAR KHAYYAM 

{Letters to Dead Authors) 

ISE Omar, do the Southern 

Breezes fling 
Above your grave,at ending 
of the Spring, 
The Snowdrift of the pet- 
als of the Rose, 
The wild white Roses you 
were wont to sing ? 

Far in the South I know 
a Land divine. 
And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine, 
And over all the shrines the Blossom blows 
Of Roses that were dear to you as wine. 

You were a Saint of unbelieving days. 
Liking your life, and happy in men's Praise ; 
Enough for you the Shade beneath the 
Bough, 
Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways. 

2Z 




Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or 

Hell, 
Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to 

spell, 
Content to know not all thou knowest now. 
What's Death ? Doth any Pitcher dread the 

Well? 

The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them 

ill, 
Shall he torment them if they chance to spill ? 
Nay, like the broken potsherds are we cast 
Forth and forgotten — and what will be will ! 

So still were we, before the Months began 
That rounded us and shaped us into Man. 

So still we shall be, surely, at the last. 
Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban ! 

Ah, strange it seems that this thy common 

thought — 
How all things have been, aye, and shall be 

nought — 
Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East, 
In those old Days when Senlac fight was 

fought, 

34 



Which gave our England for a captive Land 
To pious Chiefs of a believing Band, 

A gift to the Believer from the Priest, 
Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand! 

Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave 
Through helm and brain of him who could 

not save 
His England, even of Harold Godwin's 

son ; 
The high tide murmurs by the Hero's grave ! 

And thou wert wreathing Roses — who can 

tell ?— 
Or chanting for some girl that pleased thee 

well. 
Or satst at wine in Naishapur, when dun 
The twilight veiled the field where H arold 

fell! 

The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam ! 

Along the white Walls of his guarded Home 

No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o'er the wave 

The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam! 



ZS 



And dear to him, as Roses were to thee, 
Rings long the Roar of Onset of the Sea ! 
The Swans Path of his Fathers ; in his 
grave , 
His sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be. 

His was the Age of Faith, when all the West 

Looked to the Priest for torment or for rest ; 

And thou wert living then, and didst not 

heed 
The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who 

blessed ! 

Ages of Progress ! These eight hundred 

years 
Hath Europe shuddered with her hopes or 

fears, 
And now ! — She listens in the wilderness 
To thee^ and half believeth what she hears ! 

Hadst thou THE SECRET? Ah, and who may- 
tell ? 

"An hour we have," thou saidst : "Ah, 
waste it well ! " 
An hour we have and yet Eternity 

Looms o'er us, and the thought of Heaven 
or Hell! 



Nay, we can never be as wise as thou, 
O idle singer 'neath the blossomed bough ! 
Nay, and we cannot be content to die; 
We cannot shirk the questions "Where ?" and 
"How?" 

Ah, not from learned Peace and gay Content 
Shall we of England go the way he went — 
The Singer of the Red Wine and the 
Rose — 
Nay, otherwise than his our Day is spent ! 

Serene he dwelt in fragrant Naishapur, 
But we must wander while the Stars endure. 
He knew the secret: we have none 
that knows. 
No Man so sure as Omar once was sure ! 

Andrew Lang 




TO ANDREW LANG (Dedication) 

EAR singer of the North, 
for all the hours 
The happy hours I owe 

you take at least, 
These echoes of our singer 
of the East, 
Where still the brown bird 
sings, the tulip flowers. 
The wine runs red, the 
flute-girl haunts the bowers 
Where still the Poet, drinking at life's feast 
Smiles at the jest of Potter, Prince and 
Priest, 
The doom of thrones and Babylonian towers. 
You who love Omar, you whose verses rest. 
Like Omar's longed-for roses, on his tomb. 
Forgive the rashness that would fain con- 
jure 
The watcher of the stars, a welcome guest 
Into your presence from the cypress gloom. 
And glory of enchanted Naishapur ! 

Justin Huntly McCarthy 




TO CECILIA 

»HE Wine of Life, the 

Wonder of the Spring, 
The passionate madness 

of the Nightingale 
Whose Litany all lover's 
lips must wail, 
"Farewell, farewell, farewell 
to everything" — 
These Omar sang, and 
these myself shall sing 
In dreams beside some stream where tulips 

sail. 
Red Argosies, before the scented gale, 
While you recline on Caesar's dust and 

string 
Your lute through all the languid afternoon 
To Persian airs of Desert and of Palm, 
Of green Oasis and of Gardens sweet 
With roses, where the magic of the moon 
In silver steeps the consecrated calm 
And on the enchanted sward our shadows 
meet. 

Justin Huntly McCarthy 



OMAR KHAYYAM 




MAR, dear Sultan of the 

Persian song, 
Familiar friend whom I 
have loved so long, 
Whose volume made 
my pleasant hiding- 
place 
From this fantastic world 
of right and wrong. 

My youth lies buried in thy verses; lo, 
I read, and as the haunted numbers flow. 

My memory turns in anguish to the face 
That leaned o'er Omar's pages long ago. 

Alas for me, alas for all who weep 

And wonder at the silence dark and deep 

That girdles round this little lamp in space 
No wiser than when Omar fell asleep. 

Rest in thy grave beneath the crimson rain 
Of heart-desired roses. Life is vain, 
And vain the trembling legends we may 
trace 
Upon the open book that shuts again. 

Justin Huntly McCarthy 



IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYAM 




'HESE pearls of thought in 

Persian gulfs were bred, 
Each softly lucent as a 

rounded moon ; 
The diver Omar plucked 

them from their bed, 
FitzGerald strung them on 

an English thread. 

Fit rosary for a queen, in 
shape and hue, 
When Contemplation tells her pensive beads 
Of mortal thoughts, forever old and new. 
Fit for a queen ? Why, surely, then for you ! 

The moral ? Where doubt's eddies toss and 

twirl 
Faith's slender shallop till her footing reel. 
Plunge : if you find not peace beneath the 

whirl. 
Groping, you may, like Omar, grasp a pearl. 

James Russell Lowell 



Sultan and slave alike have gone their way 
With Bahram Gur, but whither none may 

say, 
Yet he who charmed the wise at Naisha- 

pur 
Seven centuries since, still charms the wise 

to-day. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich 



ON READING THE RUBAIYAT OF 
OMAR KHAYYAM IN A KENTISH 
ROSE GARDEN 




ESIDE a dial in the leafy 

close. 
Where every bush was 

burning with the Rose 
With million roses falling 

flake by flake 
Upon the lawn in fading 
summer snows ; 



I read the Persian Poet's rhyme of old. 
Each thought a ruby in a ring of gold — 
Old thoughts so young, that, after all these 
years. 
They're writ on every rose-leaf yet unrolled. 

You may not know the secret tongue aright 
The Sunbeams on their rosy tablets write ; 

Only a poet may perchance translate 
Those ruby-tinted hieroglyphs of light. 

Mathilde Blind 




HOUGH still the famous 

Book of Kings 
With strange memorial 

music rings, 
Firdausi's muse is dead and 

gone 
As Kai-kobad and Feridon, 
And Rustum and his 
Pahlawan 
Are cold as pre-historic man. 
— KHAYYAM still lives; his magic rhyme 
Is forged of spells that conquer Time, 
The hopes and doubts, the joys and pains 
That never end while Man remains ; 
The sin, the sorrow and the strife 
Of good and ill in human life ; 
Such themes can ne'er grow stale and old, 
— Nor can the verse in which they're told, 
Reflecting as it does each phase 
Of human thought and human ways. 
The world may roll through ages yet. 
New stars may rise, old stars may set. 
But like the grass and like the rain 
Some things forever fresh remain. 



44 



Some poets whom no rust can touch 
—KHAYYAM and HORACE are of such. 
But while we knew the Roman's tongue, 
KHAYYAM in vain for us had sung, 
Till One arose on English earth 
Who to his music gave new birth. 
Henceforth, so long as English speech 
Shall through the coming ages reach. 
The name oi Khayyam will go down 
With such a glory of renown 
As ne'er on Eastern poet's brow 
Has poured its radiance until now. 
— And who has wrought this spell of might 
That brings the. hidden gem to Light ? 
'Twas One who touched his harp, unseen. 
Who never wished to lift the screen 
That hid him from the outer throng, 
Bpt blameless lived and sang his song 
In modest tones, not over-loud, 
To shun the plaudits of the crowd. 
Now that we know him — now, at last. 
When o'er the threshold he hath passed — 
We'll love with love that knows no change 
The Hermit-bard of Little Grange. 

Michael Kerney 



OMAR KHEYYAM 




thou, the Orient morn- 
ing's nightingale. 
That, from the darkness 

of the Long Ago, 
Thy note of unpropitiable 

woe 
Cast'st out upon the 

Time-traversing gale, 
— Its burden still Life's 
lamentable tale. 
Too late come hither and too soon to go. 
Whence brought and whither bounden none 

doth know 
Nor why thrust forth into this world of wail, 
We, thy sad brethren of the western lands, 
SONS OF THE SECRET of this latter day. 
We, who have sailed with thee the 

BLOOD-DEVOURING WAY, 
We, thy soul's mates, with thee join hearts 

and hands 
Across the abysses of eight hundred years. 

John Payne 




OMAR KHAYYAM (To A. L.) 

AYER of Sooth, and 

Searcher of dim skies ! 
Lover of Song, and Sun, 

and Summertide, 
For whom so many roses 

bloomed and died ; 
Tender Interpreter, most 

sadly wise. 
Of earth's dumb inarticu- 
lated cries ! 
Time's self cannot estrange us, nor divide ; 
Thy hand still beckons from the garden-side. 
Through green vine-garlands, when the Win- 
ter dies. 

Thy calm lips smile on us, thine eyes are 

wet; 
The Nightingale's full song sobs all through 

thine. 
And thine in hers, — part human, part divine! 
Among the deathless gods thy place is set, 
All-wise, but drowsy with Life's mingled 

Wine, 
Laughter and Learning, Passion and Regret. 

Rosamund Marriott Watson 



TOAST TO OMAR KHAYYAM 




Chorus 

N this red wine, where Mem- 
ory's eyes seem glowing 
Of days when wines were 
bright by Ouse and Cam, 
And Norfolk's foaming nectar 

glittered, showing 
What beard of gold John 

Barleycorn was growing. 
We drink to thee whose law 
is nature's knowing. 

Omar Khayyam ! 

I 

Star-gazer, who canst read, when night is 
strewing 
Her scriptured orbs on time's frail 

oriflamme. 
Nature's proud blazon: "Who shall bless 
or damn ? 
Life, Death, and Doom are all of my bestow- 
ing!" 

Chorus: 

Omar Khayyam ! 

48 



II 

Master whose stream of balm and music, 
flowing 
Through Persian gardens, widened till it 

swam — 
A fragrant tide no bank of time shall dam — 
Through Suffolk meads where gorse and 
may were blowing. 
Chorus: 

Omar Khayyam ! 

Ill 

Who blent thy song with sound of cattle low- 
ing. 
And caw of rooks that perch on ewe and 

ram. 
And hymn of lark and bleat of orphan 
lamb 
And swish of scythe in Bredfield's dewy 
mowing ? 
Chorus: 

Omar Khayyam ! 



49 



IV 

*Twas Fitz, "Old Fitz," whose knowledge, 
farther going 
Than lore of Omar, "Wisdom's starry 

cham," 
Made richer still thine opulent epigram; 
Sowed seed from seed of thine immortal 
sowing. 

Chorus: 

Omar Khayyam ! 

In this red wine, where Memory's eyes seem 

glowing 
Of days when wines were bright by Ouse 

and Cam, 
And Norfolk's foaming ne6tar glittered, 

showing 
What beard of gold John Barleycorn was 

growing. 
We drink to thee whose lore is nature's 

knowing, 

Omar Khayyam. 

Theodore Watts 



TO THE TENT MAKER 




HY fateful mystery still 

mocks the eye, 
Ah, hast thou told us truth 

or dost thou lie ? 
Awful is thy philosophy 

— or sweet, 
And doubting must we 

bide until we die. 



Yet if we live beneath thy 
teachings, say. 
What if we find thou knewest not the way. 
And dead and strayed and lost and damned 
we burn. 
Shall we not curse the counsels of thy clay ? 

We know that thou art potent in our hearts. 
And long to take the word thy song imparts. 
But know not, hesitate, and seek again — 
Our seeking answerless to thee departs. 



51 



Gay is thy voice, thou singst the Song of 

Wine, 
That all men's cares yield to the gladsome 

vine ; 
But is thy joy less sad than all our woe. 
And art thou dust, Oh Mocker, as thy 

Shrine ? 

Thomas Wood Stevens 



RUBAIYAT TO OMAR KHAYYAM 




Persian OMAR ! would 
thou wert alive again ! 

Then might we surely see 
thee strive again 
To gather from the bit- 
ter flowers of Fate 

Sweet honey for our 
human hive again. 



The stars still shine as once they brightly 

shone, 
When, as they watched thy terrace, nightly 

shone 
The answering flashes of thy love and hate, 
And red gleams of the wine-cup lightly 

shone ! 

The blood-red petals from the roses fall, as 

then they did, 
Death for us moderns likewise closes all, as 

then it did; 
We know not more than thou didst know 

of life-to-be ; 
The ruthless Wheel of Heaven disposes all, 

as then it did. 

53 



But thy example makes us brave to face our 

Fate : 
There may be love beyond the grave to grace 

our Fate, 
And we, meanwhile, will keep alive the 

glow of life, to be 
Worth saving if great Allah deign to save, 

to grace our Fate. 

And so accept this volume as a meed of praise, 
Altho' thy Fame, so stablished, hath no 

need of praise, 
And thou thyself art very far away from 

us — 
So far, thou'd'st not take heed of blame or 

heed of praise. 

A score of zealous poets have translated thee 
In tongues unheard of when the Mollahs 

hated thee. 
And now accept their tribute, and this lay 
from us. 
For whom thy living words have recreated 
thee ! 

Nathan Haskell Dole 



OMAR KHAYYAM 




EADING in Omar till the 

thouo^hts that burned 
Upon his pages seemed to 
be inurned 
Within me in a silent fire, 
my pen 
By instin<5l to his flowing 
metre turned. 



Vine-crowned free-thinker 
of thy Persian clime — 
Brave bard, whose daring thought and mys- 
tic rhyme 
Through English filter trickles down to us 
Out of the lost springs of an olden time — 

Baffled by life's enigmas, like the crowd 
Who strove before and since to see the cloud 
Lift from the mountain pinnacle of faith — 
We honor still the doubts thou hast avowed ; 

And fain would round the half-truth of thy 

dream ; 
And fain let in, if so we might, a beam 

55 



Of purer light through windows of the soul, 
Dividing things that are from things that 
seem. 

True, true, brave poet, in thy cloud involved. 
The riddle of the world stood all unsolved ; 
And we who boast our broader views still 
grope 
Too oft like thee, though centuries have 
revolved. 

Yet this we know. Thy symbol of the jar 
Suits not our Western manhood, left to mar 
Or make, in part, the clay 'tis moulded of; 
And the soul's freedom is its fateful star. 

Not like thy ball thrown from the player's 
hand. 

Inert and passive on a yielding strand ; 
Or, if a ball, the rock whence it rebounds 

Proves that the ball some license may com- 
mand. 

But though thy mind, which measured Jove 

and Mars, 
Lay fettered from the Unseen by bolts and 

bars 

56 



Of circumstance, one truth thy spirit saw — 
The mystery spanning life and earth and stars. 

Dervish and threatening dogma were thy foes. 

The question though unanswered still arose, 

And through the revel and the wine-cups 

still 
The honest thought : "Who knows, but 

One — who knows ?" 

As I read again each fervent line 
That smiles through sighs, and drips with 
fragrant wine — 
And Vedder's thoughtful muse has graced 
the verse 
With added jewels from the Artist's mine — 

I read a larger meaning in the sage — 
A modern comment on a far-off age ; 

And take the truth, and leave the error out 
That casts its light stain on the Asian page. 

Christopher P, Cranch 



ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A COPY OF 
OMAR 

EEM not this book a Creed ; 
'tis but the cry 

Of one who fears not Death, 
yet would not die ; 

Who at the table feigns, 
with sorry jest, 

To love the wine the Mas- 
ter's hand has pressed — 

The while he loves the 
absent Master best — 
The bitter cry of love for love's reply. 

Arthur Sherburne Hardy 




TO OMAR KHAYYAM 

Thy book defies thy creed, for there doth sing 
The undying self from baser uses shriven. 

Thou hast snatched a feather from an angel's 
wing 
To write, — There is no heaven ! 

Anna Poole Beardsley 



THE RUBAIYAT 




WELL here three sad, sweet 

spirits ; perfume born 
Of fading rose-leaves, vision 
of the thorn, 
Behind each flower of joy 
in Life's Bouquet, 
And one long sigh we make 
too oft to scorn. 

^'A hair perhaps divides 
the false and true ;" 
Or false or true thy verses, we this due 

Of meed bestow on one most bitter-sweet : 
We read and dream, then dream and read 
anew. 



Charles P. Nettleton 



AFTER OMAR 



E strive for fame — pray 

tell me what is fame ? 
A little clapping of the 

hands — a name 
Upon the tongues of men 

— a fitful fire. 
And then a wind that . 

quenches fire and 

flame. 

We are all weak and made of common dust, 
The god within us linked with vulgar lust, 

The spirit ever warring with the flesh, 
Till back within the earth our bones are 
thrust. 




William Reed Dunroy 



A CLOSE UPON THE TWELFTH 
RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM 

Dedicated to T. N. by P. G. the sixteenth 
night of June. 

"A book of verses underneath the bough, 
"A jug of wine, a loaf of bread — and thou 
"Beside me singing in the wilderness — 
"Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow !" 

FT have the footsteps of 

my soul been led 
By thee, sweet OMAR, 
far from hum of Toil 
To where the Chenar trees 
their plumage spread 
And tangly wild grape- 
vines the thickest coil; 
Where distant fields, 
scarce glimpsed in Noon content 
Are lush with verdure quick upon the plough. 
Where trills the Nightingale beneath the Tent 
Of Heaven, uttering her soft lament ; 
There have I sat with Thee and conned ere 

now 
A book of Verses underneath the bough. 

61 




When from the City's raucous din new-freed, 
I quaff thy Wisdom from the clearing Cup 
Of Rubaiyat, then, even as I read, 
I seem with Thee in Persian groves to sup 
On Bread of YEZDAKHAST and 

SHIRAZ wine 
That lifts the Net of Care from off the Brow. 
These Words, that tongue the Spirit of the 

Vine, 
Speak from the Veil, and lo ! the voice is 

Thine : 
Then is my Wish — would Fate that Wish 

allow — 
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou. 

Although I tread the Wilderness of Life, 
Thy song can waft me to that careless Clime, 
Where enter in nor Memories of Strife, 
Nor Ghosts of Woe from out the Gulf of 

Time. 
There, by thy side, great OMAR, would I 

stray, 
And drink the juice that has forgot the Press. 
(A Pot, the Potter shaped but yesterday, — 
Tomorrow will it be but broken clay ?) 
With only Thee, the toilsome Road to bless, 
Beside me singing in the wilderness ! 

63 



When thou dost scorn the Waste and mourn 

the Rose, 
That dies upon the World's too sinful Breast, 
In thy Disdain a wondrous beauty glows. 
Unfolding Visions of a Life more blessed. 
Then from thy NAISHAPUR in 

KHORASSAN, 
I seem to wander, though 1 know not how. 
Within the glittering Gates of JENISTAN, 
Supreme SHADUKIAM I wondering scan : 
Though still I walk the Wilderness, I vow — 
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow ! 

Porter Garnett 



THE LOVE OF A SUMMER DAY 

(The Chap-Book) 

"A book of verses underneath the bough, 
"A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou 
"Beside me singing in the wilderness : 
"Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow !" 

would rather be loved by you, 
sweet. 
Than all of the world beside, 
1 would rather one day with you, 
sweet. 
On the brink of a summer tide, 
With a song we could sing to- 
gether, 
And a crystal of ruddy wine 
Than a century's summer weather 
And another love than thine. 

I would rather be crowned with you, sweet, 
Than to king with the fairest queen. 

I would rather be poor with you, sweet, 
'Neath the shadowy beeches green, 

65 




With your cheek on my own cheek dreaming 

And your kisses upon my face. 
Than to lie amid treasures gleaming 

In another love's embrace. 

I would rather be near to you, sweet. 

Than to win an immortal name. 
I would rather be dear to you, sweet, 

Than to leave an undying fame 
In the minds of a mighty throng, sweet. 

For man's memory fades away. 
And there's nothing that lasts so long, sweet, 

As the love of a summer day. 

John Bennett 
(Copyright 1895, by H. S. Stone & Co.) 



OVER THE ROSE-LEAVES, 
UNDER THE ROSE 

{The Chap-Book) 

"One thing is certain and the rest is lies ; 
"The flower that has once blown forever dies." 

HY did you say you loved 
me then, 
If this must be the end? 
Can so much more than 

lover be 
So far much less than friend? 
You say "Suppose we had 
not met" 
__ Beneath this Provence 

rose ; 
Suppose we had not loved at all ! 
Suppose y dear heart, suppose ? 

Suppose beside some common road 

There bloomed a common rose. 
As this one crimsons all the air 

Within the garden close, 
Suppose you plucked it, passing by, 

And spread its petals wide, 
Until the sweetness of its heart 

Filled all the country-side. 

67 




Suppose you wore it on your breast 

One careless summer day ; 
Suppose you kissed it once — or twice — 

To pass the time away, 
Then tore it slowly leaf from leaf. 

As I have torn this rose. 
Until you bared its very soul, 

Tou would not ? Well, suppose I 

Suppose you stripped its very soul 

Down to life's golden core. 
Till heart and life and soul were yours. 

And there was nothing more 
A rose could give to please y^our sense 

Or win a passing smile ; 
Then dropped it in the pathway — thus — 

No longer worth your while. 

And then — suppose those scattered leaves 

Were days we two have shared — 
You need not say you counted them ; 

You need not say you cared — 
Could all the counting, all the care, 

Or all my foolish pain 
Put that one rose together, dear. 

Or make it bloom again ? 

John Bennett 

(Copyright 1898, by H. S. Stone & Co.) 



IN OMAR 




HY did'st thou say, O 

King of all the Wise, 
Maker of Tents, and 

Searcher of the Skies — 
Why did'st thou say we 
dust to dust descend 
And lie sans Song, sans 
Singer and sans — 
End? 

How can it be, the Echo of that song 
Thou sang'st in Naishapur, the Spedral 
Throng 
All jealous of the Silence of the Tomb 
Withhold or grimly smother in the gloom ! 

Is't so, sweet Singer of Immortal Song ! 
Then powerless to right Eternal Wrong 

We yet may quaff, in memory of thy soul. 
What thou did'st brew, nor emptied in this 
Bowl. 

Gardner C. 'Teall 



OMAR KHAYYAM 




N Naishapur his ashes lie 
O'ershadowed by the 
mosque's blue dome ; 
There folded in his tent of sky 
The star of Persia sleeps at 
home. 

The rose her buried nightingale 
Remembers, faithful all these 
years ; 
Around his grave the winds exhale 
The fragrant sorrow of her tears. 

Sultans and Slaves in caravans 

Since Malik Shah have gone their way, 
And the ridges of the Kubberstans 

Are their memorials today. 

But from the dust in Omar's tomb 
A Fakir has revived a Rose, — 

Perchance the old, ancestral bloom 

Of that one by the mosque which blows. 

70 



Out of its petals he has caught 

The inspiration Omar knew, 
Who from the stars his wisdom brought, 

A Persian Rose that drank the dew. 

The Fakir now in dust lies low 

With Omar of the Orient; 
FitzGerald, — shall we call him ? No : 

*Twas Omar in the Occident ! 

Frank Dempster Sherman 



OMAR RE-SUNG 

McCarthy^ jdy 

AY, who will buy this 

earth? 
Two barley corns will 

take it ; 
If you have one of worth. 
Then only one I'll make it. 
Bring wine ; this life is vain 
Without the ring of laugh- 
ter; 

There is no sense in pain, 
Here nor in, hereafter. 

McCarthy J 22y 

Why frown upon thy fate ? 
Oh, rather with a smile 
Go meet her at the gate 
And laugh with her the while. 
Let every moment be 
A little dream of bliss. 
Which, as it flies from thee. 
Takes hence a loving kiss. 




72 



McCarthy, 413 

Tranquility, O friend, 

Should thy good motto be ; 

Think not upon the end. 

Nor of eternity. 

What thou hast done or thought 

Is but an atom's vaunt — 

Too small, where stars are wrought. 

For merit or for taunt. 

McCarthy, jyo 

Now nightingales rejoice 
And roses scent the air, 
And lo ! the fountain's voice 
Is laughing everywhere. 
What time have we to ope 
The musty Koran, Sweet, 
When nature, full of hope, 
Flings lyrics at our feet? 

Charles G, Blanden 




A REMINISCENCE OF OMAR 
KHAYYAM. 

sometimes wonder when I see 

the rose 
Rest on Her bosom, where my 

head has lain, 
Whether, when She is dust, that 

rose's seed 
Will find its nursery there and 
bloom again. 

I sometimes wonder if the jes- 
samine. 
Which added fragrance to her fragrant hair. 
Will with it later make a common cause 
And bloom again to make another fair. 

But most I wonder if the flower of love, 
Which lay upon the soul I could not see. 

Will find its fellows in Elysian fields 
And bloom again to bless and welcome me. 

Ah, yes, methinks the God who loves the 

rose. 
And loves the jessamine in my lady's hair, 

Will love the love that decorates her soul, 
And will not fail to make my heaven more 
fair. 

George Somes Layard 



IN NAISHAPUR. 

N Naishapur, when Omar wrote, 
No nightingale with lusty 

throat 
Carolled a clearer, sweeter 
note 
In Naishapur. 

He saw the yellow roses swoon 
Beneath the kisses of the June, 

And the star blossoms of the night 

Opened their petals to his sight. 

He sang of life, and death, and woe, 
A thousand years or so ago ; 
The north winds o'er him rose leaves throw 
In Naishapur. 

Robert Loveman 




THE RUBAIYAT. 




■ y^iMAR Khayyam, you're 
^ "^ a jolly old Aryan, 

Half sybaritic, and semi- 
barbarian. 
Not a bit mystic, but 

utilitarian, 
Fond of a posy and fond 
of a dram. 
D Symbolist, poet, and 
clear— eyed philosopher. 
Had you a wife I am sure you were boss of 

her. 
Yet you'd be ruled by the coquettish toss of 
her 

Garland crowned head at you, Omar Khay- 
yam. 
For their vanity, 
In your humanity. 
Else your urbanity. 
Were but a flam. 
And the severity 
Of your austerity 

76 



Proves your sincerity, 

Omar Khayyam. 

Well I remember when first you were her- 
alded, 

Persian-born poesy, ably FitzGeralded ; 

Impulse said buy you — and I to my peril 
did: 

Now a meek slave to your genius I am. 

Some of your doctrines to us may seem 
hatable. 

Though we admit that the themes are 
debatable ; 

But your ideas, are they really translatable 

Into our languages, Omar Khayyam ? 

In your society 

All inebriety 

Seems but propriety 

Truth but a sham ; 

And the reality 

Of your carnality 

Courts immortality, 

Omar Khayyam. 

From the grave depths of your massive tran- 
quility 

77 



Thoughts you produce, knowing well their 

futility, 
Thoughts that you phrase with a fatal facility, 
Hurl with the force of a battering ram ! 
But we care not though your message be 

cynical, 
Not very creedal and scarcely rabbinical ; 
We, your adorers, put you on a pinnacle. 
For that we love you, old Omar Khayyam. 
Though you're erroneous. 
Still you're harmonious. 
And you're euphonious 
In epigram. 
O'er the censorious 
You are victorious ; 
We hold you glorious, 
Omar Khayyam. 

Carolyn }VeUs 



Here be words from those without the 
gates. 




TO OMAR KHAYYAM 

|ATE from thy face the 

veil of darkness clears; 
Thy name now rings for- 
ever in our ears ; 
So that we wonder as we 
listen, how 
We've done without thee 
this eight hundred 
years. 

We wonder if thy critics bade thee take 
Thy rhymes elsewhere, and hint that thou 

wouldst make 
A good vine-dresser, or might'st guide the 

plough; 
And bid thee sing no more for pity's sake. 

Thou hadst a secret, so our young men say. 
World-weary youths who writhe and groan 

that they 
Were born to solve the "Where," the 

"How," but tell 
Us nought besides of thy strange-titled lay, 

80 



Hadst thou of that red wine a famous brand, 
Sinless of aching head or trembUng hand ? 
Couldst thou unpricked a rosy wreath en- 
twine ? 
Lies here the riddle, Omar, thou hadst 
planned ? 

What loss if thou hadst laid its answer bare! 
One theme the less ! one passion less to tear! 
And he who sips this monthly draught of 

rhyme 
Will know that themes are getting somewhat 

rare. 

Thou art a storehouse for our rhymester crew, 
They read thee not — that were too much to 

do — 
But cull thy telling bits and quote them 

free, 
Till men believe that they are poets too. 

For folk uncultured know not of thy song, 

Thou art too high, too deep, perchance too 

long. 

But to the spouters of thy sample lines 

They give high place the bardic ranks among. 

8i 



And so these win a name. Wise Omar, say, 
Old man, hadst thou a secret that would pay- 
So well as this ? The world is for the 
West, 
And Eastern secrets now have had their day. 



82 



THE RUBAIYAT OF O'MARA 
KHAYVAN. 

Eran (Iran?) year of the Hegira 94 — Via 
Brooklyn. 

AKE, for the night that 

lets poor man forget 
His daily toil is past, and 
in Care's net 
Another day is caught 
to gasp and fade ; 
OH ! but my weary bones 
are heavy yet ! 

^ Wake ! son of kings that 

bears a hod on high, 
And builds the world. The red sun mounts 

the sky 
And circles squares in the cot's every chink 
And gilds ephemeral motes that whirl and die. 

Wake ! for the bearded goat devours the door ! 
And now the family pig forbears to snore. 
And from his trough sets up the Persian's 

cry — 
"Eat ! Drink ! Tomorrow we shall be no 

more ! 




83 



Eat, drink and sleep ! Aye, eat and sleep 

who can ! 
I work and ache. The beast outstrips the 

man ; 
And when oblivion bids the sequence end. 
Which shall we say has best filled nature's 

plan ? 

When on Gowanus' hills the whistle blows 
What dreams are mine of Hafiz* wine-red 

rose ? 
And when I drag my leaden feet toward 

home 
No sensuous bulbul note woos to repose. 

I envy the dull brute my hand shall slay. 
He lifts no stolid eye above the clay. 
I, longing, on the cloud-banked verge 
discern 
"Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday." 

What is the Cup to lips that may not drain? 
Or fleeting joy to lives conceived in pain ? 
Toil and aspire is still the common lot, 
Stumbling to rise and rising fall again. 

84 



And is this all ? Shall skies no longer shine. 
Or stars lure on the themes that seem divine ? 
Ah, Maker of the Tents ! is this thy 
hope — 
To feed and grovel and to die like swine ? 

William Mcintosh 




MEASURE FOR MEASURE 
By 0..r K....m 

AKE ! for the closed 
Pavilion doors have 
kept 
Their silence while the 
white-eyed Kaffir 
slept, 
And wailed the night- 
ingale with "Jug, 
jug, jug ! " 
Whereat, for empty cup, the White Rose 
wept. 

Enter with me where yonder door hangs out 
Its Red Triangle to a world of drought, 

Inviting to the Palace of the Djinn, 
Where Death, Aladdin, waits as Chuckerout. 

Methought, last night, that one in suit of woe 

Stood by the Tavern door and whispered," Lo, 

The Pledge departed, what avails the Cup? 

Then take the Pledge and let the Wine-cup 

go-" 



86 



But I: "For every thirsty soul that drains 
This Anodyne of Thought its rim contains — 

Free-will the Can, Necessity the Must : 
Pour off the Must, and, see, the Can remains. 

"Then, pot or glass, why label it ^fVith 

Care ? ' 
Or why your Sheepskin with my Gourd 

compare ? 
Lo ! here the Bar, and the only Judge ; 
Oh, Dog that bit me, I exact an hair !" 

We are the Sum of things, who jot our 

score 
With Caesar's clay behind the Tavern door ; 
And Alexander's armies, — where are they. 
But gone to Pot, — that Pot you push for 
more ? 

And this same jug I empty, could it speak, 

Might whisper that itself had been a Beak, 

And dealt me Fourteen Days "without 

the Op." 

Your Worship, see, my lip is on your cheek. 



87 



Yourself condemned to three score years and 

ten, 
Say, did you judge the ways of other men ? 
Why, now, sir, you are hourly filled with 
wine. 
And has the clay more license now than then ? 

Life is a draught, good sir ; its brevity 
Gives you and me our measures, and thereby 
Has docked your virtue to a tankard's span. 
And left of my criterion — A Cri* ! 

LofC. 




RECENT RUBAIYAT 

(By Omar's Ghost.) 

OWN in the Grave the dead 
men drink no more, 
Alas ! nor e'er ajar is here a 
door, 
And over-baked, my 
brother, is the Clay, 
Wherein the amber wine we 
used to pour! 

Nay here, among the dusky 
Groves of Death, 
There comes no moon the Dusk that light- 
eneth. 
And here the Nightingale hath Naught to 
say. 
And here the Rose hath lost her scented 
Breath ! 

So were the Blossoms blowing on the tree. 
And now the Dust about the Roots are We, 

And seldom comes now a kindly Soul 
To drench the thirsty Lips of Thee and Me ! 

89 



Here is an end of Spoil of the North Wind 
being certain fugitive verse gathered together 
and made into a book by Edward Martin 
Moore. The cover, title-page and initials 
were designed for this book by Frank B. 
Rae, Jr. Printed and published by Lang- 
worthy & Stevens at the Blue Sky Press, 
which is Upstairs at Woodlawn Avenue and 
Fifty-fifth street in Chicago. MCMI. 



IHl? 



89 



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